Menzoberranzan Nights
by Ziggy Sternenstaub
Summary: Almost four centuries before 'Homeland,' Zaknafein and Jarlaxle find themselves caught up in an adventure that will shape both their characters and their futures.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Menzoberranzan and everything in it are not mine. Shocking.

So. This is my second new FR story. This time I've decided to tackle a period in time rarely addressed in most fanfics: Zaknafein and Jarlaxle at the Academy! An incongruous balance of humour and high drama! Student antics! Duels, mayhem and Shakespearean-esque banter! Tahdah! Aren't you excited???

Also, there is a mention of original characters in this chapter. Don't flinch, worry, or flee. They will not take over the story. In fact, they will only very briefly be the focus of the action, later on in the story, and that only to make Zak and Jarlaxle look even more hot they than usually do;) Amazing, eh? Also, Jarlaxle has hair in this story, because I'm quite sure he had it at some point.

Finally, this is a short story, so it will be completed within three or four chapters, maximum.

This would also be the point in time at which I get down on my knees and beg, pretty, pretty please, for lovely reviews!

Enjoy;)

**Menzoberranzan Nights**

by Ziggy Sternenstaub

Even when the dark elves lay abed, Menzoberranzan was never dark.

Gleaming red eyes that perceived heat in all of its marvelous, multicoloured gradients did not permit the total extinguishment of sight. Every time one of Menzoberranzan's twenty thousand citizens closed her or his eyes, she or he could still see the dance of a thousand colours painted across the back side of paper-thin eyelids. The exquisite nature of these shades, their unspeakable clarity and abnormal beauty—these were things that were both expected, normal, and yet, like the bright danger of a candle's flame, they never lost their power.

It was for these reasons that Zaknafein Sev'ron, warrior student and common soldier in service to the House of Daermon N'a'shezbaernon, was lying in his Academy-issue sheets, unable to sleep, caught between contemplating the pictures painted across his closed eyes, and the pictures that awaited him should he open them. He was restless, bored, uneasy and faintly aroused—but he was a very young man, and young men, regardless of species, are always faintly aroused.

"Psss!"

The subtle whisper was pitched low enough to alert an elf who was already awake; all others it would leave languishing in the crafty and demanding grip of Reverie. Zaknafein rolled over, opened his eyes, and was not surprised to see Jarlaxle standing at the door.

_Come on! _Jarlaxle's fingers moved with the same irascible cleverness that Zaknafein was accustomed to from his tongue, and the prone elf slipped out of bed. He pulled his plain clothes out from under his bed, leaving his Academy _piwafwi _beneath. Only once he had passed the threshold of his sleeping dorm mates did he slip on his clothing; students did sneak out, but getting caught never a good idea.

Jarlaxle took the kitchen exit, the way the slaves went while they cleaned _Melee Magthere_ each night. It took longer to leave than the simple corridors would have suggested, for avoiding the patrolling Masters was a tedious business, but finally they slipped out of the tiny portal at the warrior school's back end. Zaknafein gagged at the stench of the rubbish lying there beyond the noses and the eyes of any admiring citizens who had cause to pass the school's front. Like the beauty of the dark elves, the elegant architecture hid its own fair share of ugliness.

It wasn't until they left Academy grounds—no small task in itself, but students made desperate with boredom would always find a way—that they dared to speak.

"I thought I was going to _die _tonight," Jarlaxle moaned dramatically. "Trapped in that horrible, stuffy dorm with Sinifein snoring along next to me like a duergar with a head cold, and Pazlan tossing and turning and turning over and over again! And no decent place to lie down—nothing but scratchy regulation sheets for company—silk! Silk sheets are what I need. Or ever better—satin!"

"You could still die tonight, you know," Zaknafein casually inserted into the self-interested monologue.

"Oh?"

"If you don't shut up."

"Hmm. Always death threats with you. Not very original, Zak," Jarlaxle criticised his friend's verbal form with a brief shake of the head.

"Ah, but I'm humorous about it. Glaring with the promise of a thousand miserable dooms—that would be unoriginal."

"You do that, too," Jarlaxle pointed out.

"Only when I mean it," Zaknafein answered serenely.

Jarlaxle's brow wrinkled curiously under his long white fringe, but he did not take up the trail of his complaint again, and that was all that Zaknafein had really cared about.

"Where to tonight, then?" Zak asked as the complex and dangerous thread that was their road began to itch at his consciousness. Zaknafein despised uncertainty, and was always secretly uneasy with the unfamiliar.

"I thought we'd take a little jaunt to midnight worship in the Baenre Chapel and then head back to Arach-Tinilith for any orgy with the first-year clerical students," Jarlaxle suggested casually.

Zaknafein kept a straight face. "Sounds fantastic. It's been too long since we've been to an orgy."

They exchanged quick grins and short bursts of ironic laughter before Jarlaxle shook his head and threw his arm over his friend's shoulder. "To the _Silver Web_, I think."

Zaknafein glanced over at the other elf. "Are you saying what I think you are?"

Jarlaxle hummed a single bar of a short, haunting melody and then laughed with barely hidden joy. "Oh, yes. The twins are back."

Zaknafein caught the breath that suddenly tried to run away from his lungs.

The twins.

* * *

They were called Nadalya and Nalfein. No one knew their family name, if indeed they even had one. Rumour—almost legend among their admirers—had it that the twins were orphans who had raised themselves in the stinking streets of Skullport, singing for their suppers in perfect harmonies on lantern-lit street corners, running away from lustful goblin glances and avoiding furious dwarven merchants who frequently accused them of petty theft—accusations that probably would have been true, if the whole story did not stand in doubt. Truthfully no one knew where the twins were from, where they had learned their craft or even if Nadalya and Nalfein were really their names. Just as truthfully, the truth did not matter. The legends were simply an intriguing additional to the real attraction—the music.

It was the music that set rhythmic fire to Zaknafein and Jarlaxle's booted steps, the music that drew them in like prey on the end of a cave fisher's line. Jarlaxle danced frivolously and Zaknafein glanced up at the ceiling with a tiny, secret smile. Silver heat crowded his eyes the pink comets of fluttering bats flirted with his sight as they ascended into invisibility.

Onward and onward they followed the spider's web, inevitable in its course, until they slipped into Manyfolk, where even the dark of Narbondel could not smother the sounds of merry-making leaking out of sinister-looking taverns. Rough and drunken laughter tickled the ears of the walking elven duo, each door sending out hasty invitations to all who had the coin to squander. A duergar dwarf, intoxicated or dead, lay slumped against the side of an inn, a large bottle of potent mushroom wine clutched in his filthy fist, while a malododorous half orc-half human ambled out of the door, stooping only to search the dwarf for valuables. When he found nothing else, he took the bottle of wine instead.

Jarlaxle chuckled with amusement. "Such delights as the night offers to us all!"

The half-orc glared suspiciously, but did not dare offer any truly threatening move to a drow. Instead, it scrambled off down the road, chased only by Zaknafein's contemptuous stare.

The two elves turned left at the next intersection, moving to the side of the road as a mounted lizard padded forward. Its rider was stiff-backed and proud, red eyes barely visible through the visor of his adamantium helmet. Hands glowing in bright shades of red, green and blue held the beast's reigns with light, arrogant assurance. Jarlaxle waved merrily. At this friendly gesture, the rider stiffened with puzzlement. Zaknafein nudged his friend aggressively.

"A nervous twitch, Zak?" Jarlaxle grinned. "I know a student cleric who would be only to happy to see to that for you."

Zaknafein grunted, but took the bait. "For a price, no doubt."

"No doubt," Jarlaxle agreed, "But nothing that wouldn't be enjoyable for both of you."

"I've my hands full enough with "enjoyable" bargains already," Zaknafein pointed out dryly.

"That pretty face of yours will get you into trouble every time," Jarlaxle agreed with a naughty grin, and lightly slapped his friend's cheek twice.

Zaknafein batted his long eyelashes. "Jealous?"

"Eternally!" Jarlaxle agreed ecstatically. "My affection for you can be contained no longer, sweet Zaknafein! Oh, say you will be mine!"

Zaknafein gasped in mock joy, pressed one hand to his forehead as though he had become faint, let his eyes roll back into his head, and then let his body follow suit. Jarlaxle caught him gallantly.

"I'll catch you, fair lad!"

Zaknafein growled playfully, kicked Jarlaxle lightly in the knees, pressed him to the ground and then straddled his waist. "I'll "fair lad"_ you._"

"Oh, please do," Jarlaxle purred, wiggling his eyebrows playfully up at his friend.

Zaknafein stared intimidatingly, eyes filled with some nameless fury, and then leaned in close enough to touch noses with his friend. He held his breath, straight-faced, and Jarlaxle did the same. Then, suddenly, he could do so no longer. Zaknafein's face split with the force of his enormous grin, and he collapsed into forceful laughter, falling forward on Jarlaxle's chest, which vibrated as its owner giggled helplessly.

"And we're not even drunk yet!" Jarlaxle gasped out breathlessly.

"What are we waiting for, then?" Zaknafein demanded, rolling off of Jarlaxle and dragging him up by his left arm. "It's well past midnight and we've yet to have a single glass of wine. There's something wrong with that."

"Definitely," Jarlaxle agreed, finally catching his breath. "But fear not! We're almost there."

"I have been to the Web before, idiot."

They continued walking, their loud voices nothing remarkable in this neighbourhood.

"Just making sure your perilous fall didn't upset the delicate balance of your sensitive constitution, my dear friend."

"It's a pity only travelling companies perform in Menzoberranzan, Jarlaxle. You were made for the stage."

"Alas," Jarlaxle sighed regretfully. "The stage shall indeed never taste my genius."

"It's a shy thing, this genius of yours," Zaknafein agreed pleasantly, "I've yet to witness it myself."

Jarlaxle sniffed and tossed his long mane of hair with contempt. "Mere common soldiers such as yourself haven't the proper appreciation for the great subtlety of my genius. The only part you are likely to witness is the great rush of air as my genius flies right over your head!"

"As flighty as its owner," Zaknafein lamented. "And as unreliable."

"Unreliable!" Jarlaxle exclaimed indignantly. "Have I ever abandoned you in a time of need?"

"Only if there was profit to be had in the leaving," Zaknafein retorted dryly.

"Why, you--!" Jarlaxle performed a double backflip and landed four feet in front of Zaknafein, sword already drawn. "Such harsh words cannot go unanswered!"

"The truth _is _painful, is it not?" Zaknafein retorted, and drew his own two slim long swords.

"Not so painful as the cut of my blade, villain," Jarlaxle sneered, and then lunged.

Zaknafein's swords were ready for his opponent's rapier and shield, meeting the silver-fish quickness of the slender blade head on. Jarlaxle manouevred his shield and blocked the right-hand sword, stabbed at Zaknafein's hip with his rapier, and aimed a kick to the other elf's knee—but the blade was blocked, the kick avoided, and Zaknafein used his superior upper-body strength to slam his sword down on Jarlaxle's shield and send a heavy shockwave through the other student's arm.

"Brute," Jarlaxle sniffed disdainfully.

Zaknafein grinned viciously, his blood up and sending hot jolts of hormonal pleasure through all of his limbs. He dove into a roll and knocked Jarlaxle down onto the street, driving his arms into Jarlaxle's prone arms until the other male was forced to release his grip on his swords. Zak did likewise and grinned down at his friend.

"I win."

Jarlaxle laughed and leaned forward, placing a revoltingly sloppy, wet kiss on Zaknafein's forehead. The other student drew back in disgust and Jarlaxle used the moment to flip him, reversing their positions.

"Do you now?" he mocked the warrior under him.

"I might be forced to use...unpleasant tactics if you don't get off of me," Zaknafein warned.

"Sounds exciting," Jarlaxle mused naughtily.

"It won't be," was the black response.

"You're just upset because I tricked you," Jarlaxle pouted.

"You're just upset because you lost," his friend retorted.

"Eh, out of the street afore someone walks over ye!" a gruff, annoyed voice snarled at them.

The two elves looked up with surprise as a grunting half-giant lumbered towards them. Quickly, they rolled to their feet in an ecstasy of self-preservation.

"My pardon, good sir," Jarlaxle said, more than half ironically, and offered a mock-salute.

The creature mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "godsdamn drow," but the two truant students let it pass, continuing on their own way.

They managed to make it to the end of the street without further incidents, interruptions or duels of any variety, and finally came to a halt outside of the _Silver Web_. The tavern's shape was identical to the other squat stone bars that crowded the street, and its name was nowhere announced. Instead, the tavern's facade was carved with deep, magically inflicted triangles and stretched, pointed rectangles which, together, formed a gleaming silver web. In the uppermost corner of the bar's front, the glittering magical etching of a crafty, silver spider hung, eternally suspended, mandibles extended as if to catch and devour any foolish warm bodies that dared to venture into its tempting trap.

Carelessly heedless of this danger, Jarlaxle and Zaknafein entered the bar with the ease of familiarity.

* * *

Well? Thoughts? Mindless worship? Scathing reviews? Violent hatred because I've only posted one chapter and fanfic authors are notoriously unreliable when it comes to updates? All reactions are welcome! Let me know:)


	2. Chapter 2

**Menzoberranzan Nights**

by Ziggy Sternenstaub

From Part One:

_In the uppermost corner of the bar's front, the glittering magical etching of a crafty, silver spider hung, eternally suspended, mandibles extended as if to catch and devour any foolish warm bodies that dared to venture into its tempting trap._

_Carelessly heedless of this danger, Jarlaxle and Zaknafein entered the bar with the ease of familiarity. _

Part Two

"I wonder how Terranin paid for that engraving?" Jarlaxle mused. "Some mage must have charged a spider's nest for that much work."

"Why don't you ask him?" Zaknafein said logically as they trod into the smoky din of the bar's main room. Like its facade, the interior was decorated in glittering, magical silver, though these ornaments took the form of far less expensive enchanted cloth. The diaphanous material hung in sheer waves from the ceiling and trailed down the walls, as deceptive and hypnotic as the bar's namesake. Zaknafein squinted suspiciously against the gleam, appreciating its beauty, but uneasy with his obscured sight and the wavering, dangerous elven heat-shadows moving behind the shining rags.

"Ask him?" Jarlaxle was horrified. "Why would I do a thing like that when I have so much more fun asking everyone else?"

"And getting yourself into a more trouble than a faerie stumbling into a den of drow," Zaknafein huffed, easily taking up his accustomed role of antagonist to Jarlaxle's daring adventurer.

"I'd think you'd be pleased to have your dour predictions gratified!"

"Oh, certainly, as long as you don't drag me into trouble with you—which you always do."

Whatever clever retort Jarlaxle might have had to this uncharitable assessment of his ability to protect his own dear friend from mortal danger was lost to the ages, as a short, stocky male drow appeared in front of them, a broad grin on his wide, too-red face. Zaknafein squinted against the glare of flesh that retained a great deal of heat after endless days bent over an open forge fire.

"My friend! It's so good to see you again!"

"Daeranon!" Zaknafein exclaimed with happy surprise. "I did not expect to see you here."

"Nor I, you, boy," the older male chuckled, "considering I'd heard you'd made it to the Academy."

Zak's happy smile turned slightly sheepish. "That I did," he swallowed.

"Oh, don't look so worried, Zak," the other male chided. "Everyone needs a break once in a while."

Zaknafein finally let out his breath. The smith had little to gain by reporting his truancy, but Zaknafein had found that people often did such things for no better reason than the pleasure of sheer malice. He was glad to learn that the smith who furbished his old neighbourhood with all manner of metal goods had no interest in betraying him—at least not over something as petty as a night out on the town. Zaknafein could happily recall many childhood hours he'd spent in Daeranon's hot smithy (naturally owned by the craftsman's domineering wife, but whose day-to-day business was usually run by Daeranon himself), hiding from his parents and learning tidbits of metal craft. The memories brought a bright smile to his face.

The house band started up then, three local trade-skill apprentices who played most nights at the _Web_ for tips and fun. They formed a flute, soprano recorder and treble shawm trio and, while nothing special, they were skilled and lively enough that many of the elves in the bar moved to the main floor, paired off, and started dancing,

"Come sit at my table!" Daeranon bellowed hugely over the sudden noise. Jarlaxle offered enthusiastic agreement while Zaknafein winced and discretely leaned away from the smith, eager to avoid damage to his hearing. In addition to slowly roasting Daeranon to crispy perfection, the constant clang of metal on metal had eventually robbed the man of the more subtle functions of the ear, including the ability to judge the volume of his own voice.

It was a good thing Daeranon was a great smith, Zak thought, or someone would surely have strolled up behind and killed him decades ago just because she or he could.

"Who's your friend?" Daeranon quietly roared once they'd taken their seats.

Zaknafein opened his mouth to respond, but was—naturally--interrupted by Jarlaxle himself.

"_I _am only the greatest friend that Zaknafein here has ever known, the companion of a hundred chases, the ally of a thousand Academy battles, the only one to appreciate his uncouth, common humour and that face that not even a mother could love (Zak and Daeranon lifted sceptical eyebrows), and the only noble, compassionate and insightful elf capable of seeing through Zaknafein's tragic facade of strength, skill, arrogance and invulnerability to glimpse the true, beautiful and complex soul within!"

Jarlaxle paused and gasped for breath.

"A name will do fine, boy," Daeranon said dryly.

Jarlaxle's eyes crossed in brief puzzlement; then he shrugged. "Oh. Jarlaxle."

"Pleased to meet you, too," Daeranon chuckled, briefly crossing his arms across his chest to signal peace. Jarlaxle grinned ruefully and copied the gesture.

"I take it you met at Melee-Magthere, then?" Daeranon asked Zaknafein.

"Oh, did you take that? I didn't hear what he said. I always tune Jarlaxle out when he starts babbling egotistically—and he never babbles in any other way."

"Zak!" Jarlaxle exclaimed, enormous shock and hurt painted all over his face. Zaknafein made a rude gesture, and both students started laughing again.

Daeranon shook his head with amusement. "Tell you boys both what—I'll buy you both a drink."

"I'll accept that offer," Jarlaxle agreed eagerly. "As long the reparation doesn't involve eventual bodily harm to myself—or Zak here."

"He included you in the terms," Daeranon noted with a sly smile. "A good friend indeed you've found."

"He gets his head out of his arse eventually," Zaknafein agreed happily.

"Just for that—no reparation. Just a drink!" Daeranon banged on the table several times until a grovelling goblin slave came to take his order. "Bottle of mushroom wine for me and my young friends here."

"Yes, good master," the goblin lisped. "Something to eat, too?"

"No. Now go get that drink before I kick your skinny arse all the back to the bar!" the smith snarled.

The goblin scurried off with familiar terror.

"Filthy things," the older elf grunted his disgust. "But who else is going to do the nasty jobs if they won't?"

"No drow, that's for certain," Zaknafein shrugged. "Though I wouldn't mind the goblins as much if they weren't so godsdamned ugly."

"At least these ones bathe," Jarlaxle noted.

"Terranin wouldn't get any customers if he didn't douse the scum with soapy water every week or so," Zaknafein retorted.

The goblin returned with the bottle and three glasses, poured wine into each and waited for the elves to taste and nod their satisfaction. The creature set the bottle with the remaining liquid inside down in the centre of the table and was just turning to leave with Daeranon landed a solid kick to the goblin's flat rear end. The slave let out a howl and took off running while every drow in the immediate area laughed, filling the air with melodious spite.

"Mmm," Jarlaxle hummed around his wine glass. "A good year."

Zaknafein rolled his eyes. "Pretentious bastard."

Jarlaxle put down his glass and regarded his friend with exaggerated pity. "It is not pretentious to have good taste, my dear, poor friend. Some of us have the good manners to not _slurp _our wine."

"And some of us are going our poncy arses kicked if they don't shut up," Zaknafein said archly.

"If _we_ don't shut up," Jarlaxle corrected serenely.

"What?"

"You began your phrase by using the first person plural possessive pronoun and then ended it using the third person plural pronoun. You _should_ have continued with—OW!"

Zaknafein retracted his fist and watched Jarlaxle rub his cheek with offended pain. Zaknafein smirked.

"You never know when to shut up, do you?"

Jarlaxle sulked into his wine, and Daeranon shook with bellowing laughter. "Oh, you boys are definitely worth the cost of a bottle of wine."

"We do our best," Zaknafein agreed. He raised his glass in a toast, clinking the goblet against Daeranon's. Jarlaxle glared evilly and Zaknafein rolled his eyes at his friend's continued anger. Feeling playfully malicious, Zak flung a heavy arm across the other student's shoulders and pulled him in for a friendly squeeze. "Don't mind Jarlaxle here—he likes to pout."

Jarlaxle pulled away sharply. "I am not pouting! I'm _brooding_."

"There's a difference?" Zak asked innocently.

"Certainly. Brooding is a noble activity—much more dignified than pouting."

"So when I refused to speak to you for three weeks because you did something incredibly stupid that almost got us killed--that was pouting? But when you refuse to speak to me because I gave you a little tap on the cheek—that's brooding and a noble activity?"

Jarlaxle grinned, all bright spirits once again. "He can be taught!"

Zaknafein smiled teasingly. "And those who can't do, teach."

Daeranon drained his wine glass. "Does this ever stop?"

Jarlaxle blinked. "Does what ever stop?"

"This back and forth?"

"No," Zaknafein shrugged. "Jarlaxle can't go more than ten seconds without hearing the sound of his own voice saying something clever, and I can't go more than ten seconds of hearing him being clever without wanting to shoot him down."

"Sadly, _wanting_ is about as far as poor Zak here ever gets," Jarlaxle informed Daeranon slyly.

"I got a good sight further than that last week with Mistress Qunthela," Zak tossed back with a grin. He watched Jarlaxle's eyes double in size.

"You didn't!" Jarlaxle breathed.

Zaknafein smirked smugly.

"Who's this Qunthela, then?" Daeranon asked eagerly.

"A Mistress of _Arach Tininlith_. I sometimes play errand boy for one of the Masters, bringing messages to her—but last week I stayed in her office a lot longer than usual," Zaknafein smirked.

"You lucky bastard!" Jarlaxle exclaimed. "Qunthela...she's gorgeous!"

"And very skilled," Zaknafein insinuated.

Daeranon chuckled. "A good time was had by all, it seems. Funny thing—last time I saw you were just a kiddie, and here you are getting up to no good with gorgeous ladies."

"Oh, she's no lady," Zaknafein retorted, lifting his eyebrows suggestively.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" Jarlaxle demanded.

"Not all of us kiss and tell."

"Maybe not _all _of us, but _you_ usually do."

Zaknafein shrugged and filled his glass again. He didn't know exactly why he hadn't said anything, but Qunthela made him vaguely uncomfortable, despite her obvious beauty and sexual skill. He frowned and thought of her eyes--burning, violent red...the eyes of a dangerous fanatic. Qunthela's very existence forced Zaknafein to think of the complex and nebulous world of bloody-minded nobility, a world that he'd never known and didn't really understand.

"Well, now's your chance--" Daeranon started and then cut off abruptly as a furious-looking, middle-aged drow female materialised next to the table.

"There you are, you bastard," the female snarled, looming over the metal smith. "I've been looking for you all night."

"Er," Daeranon stated eloquently.

"What you think you're doing going off without telling me? I waited for you for hours after you closed the shop!"

"I thought I told you I was going out," Daeranon said weakly.

"You certainly did not! Now get out of that chair before I drag you out!" The female made as if to do so and the smith quickly scrambled to his feet.

"Good evening, Mistress," Zaknafein nodded deferentially to the female. She frowned at him aggressively for a few seconds before recognition flickered onto her face.

"Oh, Zaknafein." She sized him up curiously. "You've grown."

"Yes, Mistress," Zaknafein agreed.

"But apparently not in the common sense department," she sniffed. "Still wasting time with my useless husband."

"Most people do agree that I'm exceptionally foolish," Zaknafein conceded gravely.

"They do, Mistress," Jarlaxle chimed in with a perfectly straight face.

"And what are you doing with yourself now?" the female asked suspiciously.

"I'm a soldier for House Do'Urden," Zaknafein informed her quickly, before Jarlaxle could say something stupid.

"Well, at least you're making yourself useful. Smartest decision your mother ever made, kicking you out the house."

Zaknafein bit his cheek to stop himself making a clever retort in response to the backhanded compliment to his mother's intelligence-- not that he cared much for his mother, but it was the principle of the thing.

"Well, boys, it was nice drinking with you," Daeranon braved a farewell. "Great seeing you again, Zak. You keep in touch. And nice to meet you, Jarlaxle."

Daeranon's wife grabbed him by the tip of his long left ear and dragged him away, barely giving him time to drop some coins on the table. Zaknafein waved cheekily at his retreating face.

"Well, that's that," Jarlaxle sighed. "And I was hoping to get another bottle of wine out of him."

"And here I thought you were enjoying the pleasure of his company."

"Oh, I was—just not as much as I was enjoying the pleasure of free drinks."

Zaknafein smiled and emptied the last of the bottle into Jarlaxle's glass. "There. Something to remember my good friend by."

"If he's such a good friend, why didn't you ever mention him to me?" Jarlaxle asked after he'd sipped from his glass.

Zaknafein shrugged. "If I never did, the omission wasn't deliberate. He just never came up."

He slumped into his chair and refrained from saying anything more, but the truth was that Daeranon was a part of his old life, a part of his childhood—and thinking about his childhood meant thinking about the fact that his mother had tossed him out of the family hut like a pair of old socks with too many holes in the heels and toes. The rejection shouldn't still hurt, but it did.

Jarlaxle seemed to sense his discomfiture and mercifully refrained from saying something ingenious. Instead, he leaned back and savoured his wine. Zaknafein did likewise.

"Shall we have a bite to eat?" Jarlaxle asked ten seconds later, the silence clearly too much for him to bear a moment longer.

"Not right now," his friend said. "I'm going to talk to Terranin; I want to know when the twins are going on."

Jarlaxle grunted. "Mmm, yes. The house band does lose its charms quickly."

Both students put their empty glasses back on the table and stood up. Zaknafein started towards the bar, and Jarlaxle surveyed the dance-floor with a cunning smile, already considering what other pleasures the night might have to offer...

* * *

A/N Okay, I'm sure most of you have probably noticed by now that I, like any good Academic (even a lowly, lazy first-year Bachelor of Arts student such as myself), am not content to simply write a somewhat funny story. Oh, no. That would obviously be far too simple. Instead, I utilise even fanfiction for my own devious ends (insert evil laugh here)-- in this case using_ Menzoberranzan Nights_ as a propaganda platform for my ideas on how drow society may be structured. I'm particularly fascinated by the common populace of the city (because frankly, I find the nobles predictable, insular and boring), their habits, and the power relations between common females and common males. Obviously, the females would still be considered "superior" to their male counterparts, but I believe that the relations would perforce be much more equal than those between noble females and the rest of the male population, simply for the sake of common security against more powerful foes, and, of course, the propagation of the species. As I already made clear in _There is for Every Man,_ I do believe that common drow probably have more "traditional" marriages than those observed between a Matron Mother and her readily interchangeable Patrons, though most likely even these common marriages are by no means monogamous, but simply longer-lasting.

In the case of Daeranon and his wife, Whats-Her-Name, there is certain familiar, if hostile, affection, born of living together for centuries and most likely raising children together. The female is still the dominant partner--she owns the property while Daeranon does the physical work, and she more or less controls all of her husband's movements; however, just as clearly, he has far more latitude than he would have were he the lover of a nobly-born female.

In my own little version of Menzoberranzan, the common populace is composed of 1) soldiers and 2) skilled craftspeople and their assistants. Grunt labour such as waiting tables is done by slaves of various races and faces (obviously the cooking would be done by drow, though. Who would want to eat anything a goblin had "prepared," much less pay good coin for it?). Finally, sitting around plotting and scheming and generally making nuisances of themselves is reserved for that oh-so-vital portion of the populace: the nobility. Useful buggers, eh? I suspect if all of the nobles were to up and disappear one day, Menzoberranzan would turn into a peace-loving hippy commune in the space of a month. Of course, like most commoners in most places, the Menzo commoners all still want to _be _nobles, because it's more fun being part of the problem than being part of the problem's victims;)

Re: the instruments of the house band. I wanted very "folk" instruments for dancing, but instruments old enough that they aren't out of place on semi-mediaeval Toril. The flute would probably be wooden, of course, and so is the soprano recorder. A shawm was a mediaeval instrument that was an early ancestor of the modern oboe. It was apparently a double-reed instrument with a loud, penetrating tone, and often used for dance music because it could be heard above a noisy crowd. By the late fourteenth century it came in two sizes: treble and a tenor pitched a fifth below. I chose treble because the difference between the range of the higher-pitched instruments and the shawm might be too marked. Edit: Thanks for much to Lady Fellshot for her suggestion of the soprano recorder in place of the penny whistle, my original choice. I...have no idea how I didn't think of that, considering I own a recorder. And, um, _occasionally_ play it. Yeah...

Well, that's it for this week's anthropological notes. Now it's time for my regularly scheduled begging session:

gets down onto knees _Please_ review!!! I live and breathe for your comments!!


	3. Chapter 3

So here we are about a year later and I've finally got the urge to finish this story. If it's any consolation for the wait, though, this chapter is well over four thousand words _before_ all of my notes._ Menzoberranzan Nights _has evolved a lot in the past year, I think, and is now quite different from what it would have been. I hope that everyone enjoys it, and I would certainly welcome all of your feedback and suggestions.

Also, I've started a C2 for all of the stories about Zaknafein. I've gone through the archives and put 60+ stories into the C2, which is called The Weapons Master, so that everyone might enjoy and subscribe.

Now: on with the show!

**Menzoberranzan Nights**

by Ziggy Sternenstaub

From Part Two:

"_Not right now," his friend said. "I'm going to talk to Terranin; I want to know when the twins are going on."_

_Jarlaxle grunted. "Mmm, yes. The house band does lose its charms quickly."_

_Both students put their empty glasses back on the table and stood up. Zaknafein started toward the bar, and Jarlaxle surveyed the dance-floor with a cunning smile, already considering what other pleasures the night might have to offer...._

Part Three

Jarlaxle's eye snagged on a group of young commoners. The four males were standing on the other side of the dance floor and seemed to be arguing about something. One of them removed a small ball from inside his coat and started throwing it into the air, where it was quickly joined by a second ball. The juggler established his rhythm with ease, smirking at his companions, until one of the other males emptied a small receptacle for cigarillo ashes and tossed the clay bowl into the mix. The juggler scowled, but continued, adjusting to the change with a proud sneer.

Jarlaxle started making his way across the room, smiling with anticipation of some mischief. He was not disappointed, for the other commoners soon grew impatient with their companion's success, and began tossing other objects at the three already circling through the air. When the fifth object—a glass—was hurled at the overburdened young drow, he was unable to make the adjustment and ball, ash tray, marble, glass, and knife sheath all went hurdling toward the floor.

Jarlaxle took that moment as his cue, and stepped into the failed juggler's place, gaining control of the five objects with cool coordination and a little help from a magical ally he had hidden up his long left sleeve. As the five objects began turning through the air with ease, Jarlaxle grinned manically at the four shocked young males.

"_Vendui_, _abbilen! _What a pity it would have been to see Master Terranin's fine glass shatter all over this floor! And with dancers stumbling about so carelessly, as well! This could have come to a violent end," Jarlaxle tutted and shook his head as mournfully as he dared.

"Who are you?" the former juggler demanded, a pentulent expression finding its way easily onto his rat-like features.

"I am Jarlaxle!" Jarlaxle declared dramatically. "Warrior and juggler e_xtraordinaire_, amongst other things, and I will bet you five adamantium pieces that I can juggle twelve objects without dropping any of them."

The four strangers exchanged speculative glances.

"Five pieces isn't much," the tallest one said coolly.

Jarlaxle let out a wounded cry. "I am but a poor fighter, a soldier of Lady Lloth's whims, and have not much for more than that in my purse...but for you, my new friends, I will make the bet ten pieces."

"Fifteen," the tall one demanded.

"Twelve," Jarlaxle returned quickly.

"Done!" the tall one exclaimed with satisfaction. "And we can throw whatever things we want at you, whenever we want."

Jarlaxle's grin grew broader. "Naturally, _abbilen_, naturally, but if I fulfill the terms of the bet, your twelve pieces are forfeit to me."

The commoners snorted and rolled their eyes, quite convinced that no one could manage twelve objects, particularly objects of their choosing.

Jarlaxle settled into an easy rhythm that mimicked the rhythm of the house band. His body remained alert, anticipating the throw that could come at any moment.

"You you heard, my friends, of the tragic tale of Gwylyss the weapons master?"

As one, the four young strangers glanced at each other before shaking their heads in confusion.

"Ah! Then let me tell you, for no young drow should go without hearing his story." Jarlaxle beamed and dramatically cleared his throat before launching into an improvised verse:

_"There once was a fighter called Gwylyss_

_Whose long sword got caught in his codpiece,_

_Now he walks with no blade,_

_And his bed, I'm afraid,_

_Is as cold as old Baenre's russuseyss."_

Screams of malicious laughter unwittingly erupted from his captive audience as he ended the rhyme, finishing it with a word so naughty that it didn't even exist in High Drow. Jarlaxle mentally tipped his hat at the absent Zaknafein, thanking him for a thorough exposure to the slang and profanities used by commoners, and accepted the breathless admiration of the four males as his due while glancing around to make sure that no one else had heard his politically risky bit of doggerel.

"Thank you, gentle-elves, thank you!" Jarlaxle said graciously, bending down to catch the sudden wine flute that the tall one flung at him. It was quickly joined by two more, and the sixth, seventh and eighth objects smoothly swayed with the previous five; Jarlaxle began to tap out a simple dance with his feet. He tapped with the music as a song slowly ended and smiled at his soon-to-be-poorer new friends.

Quite suddenly, the house band started up a new, a-rhythmic, wild melody and the eyes and ears of Jarlaxle's audience were drawn to the dance floor, where Jarlaxle knew that elves would be pairing off for what could only be_ l'elggor orbb's __alure: _the dance of the dying spider. Jarlaxle was quite certain that proper execution of the music was a bit beyond the powers of the house band, but that did not seem to matter to many, as most of the drow in the _Web_ fairly ran onto the floor, eager to join in the grotesque choreography.

"Another!" Jarlaxle demanded, trying to divert attention back onto himself.

"Catch!" a voice barked, and a knife flew out of the hands of the original juggler. Breathlessly, Jarlaxle caught the hilt, thanking Lady Lloth for luck and magic trinkets as he continued juggling.

"As you can see," Jarlaxle said with forced merriment, "My skill is up to the challenge! Only three more objects and my bet is won."

"Three more objects of my choice!" the failed juggler hissed. Cold spots of iron-grey broke up the heat pattern before Jarlaxle's eyes, and three more knives went hurdling through the air. Jarlaxle unwittingly gasped, leaning back to avoid the sharp blades even as his hands automatically reached to draw the last three objects into the aerial dance.

"One! Two! Three!" Jarlaxle shouted triumphantly, anticipating victory.

But just before he caught the last knife, something fast and hard slammed into his back, exasperating the balancing powers of the magic object in his sleeve and knocking him onto the ground. Panicking at the thought of the objects in the air falling down on top of him, Jarlaxle rolled to the side and jumped to his feet, just as glasses, ash tray, sheath, ball, marble and, most importantly, knives crashed to the floor.

A breathless pause ensued in which Jarlaxle contemplated the doom he had narrowed escaped. "What happened?" he numbly asked.

"One of the dancers bumped into you," the tall one informed him.

"Mmm. She was going really fast," the little ex-juggler added with a spiteful smile.

Automatically, Jarlaxle glanced around, but whoever this clumsy dancer had been she had long since vanished into the crowd.

"And you, _abbil," _the tall one said a grin, "Owe us twelve pieces."

Jarlaxle groaned, and opened up his purse.

* * *

Zaknafein nimbly navigated the whirling pains of dancers as their many limbs twisted erotically in the grip of a wailing melody. The student fighter watched for the _Web_'s owner, but could not see the unmistakable heat-shadow of the absurdly tall, skeletally thin male anywhere. In lieu of an enervating search Zak made a sudden beeline for the polished stone bar, feeling a definite need for further fortification. Straddling a puffy, mushroom-shaped stool, he narrowed his eyes at the little goblin who cowered in front of the row of dark bottles lining the wall.

"Bottle of mushroom wine," Zaknafein ordered.

"Yes, Master," the goblin grunted. He popped the cork and passed the bottle over with fear-quickened hands.

Zaknafein bared his teeth sarcastically and drank straight from the bottle, shaking his head at the tingling rush that filled his mouth and throat before he spun around on the stool to watch the shining, sweating crowd on the floor. Many of the usually paranoid elves danced with their eyes closed and displayed a certain frantic energy that reeked of reckless desperation, of longing for something that Zaknafein both understood and could not possibly put into words.

Glancing down, he blinked rapidly and rubbed his thumb over the mouth of his wine bottle before taking another long swallow.

"I've seen you here before," a throaty, deep female voice murmured.

Slowly, Zaknafein peered at the drow sitting on the stool to his right. She was his height, perhaps a bit taller, slim and dressed in tunic and trousers—a good sign. She probably wasn't a cleric.

"My pardon, Mistress," Zaknafein replied slowly. "I have not noticed you here before, but it is not an oversight I will repeat."

The female smiled with the secret, black cunning of a deep dragon and beckoned Zaknafein to come closer. This he did, abandoning his stool to stand at her side.

"I am Triel—no relation," she added with a briefly sour face before he could make mention of Matron Baenre's eldest daughter.

"You are much more beautiful, Mistress," Zaknafein rejoined. It was true; he had once seen Triel Baenre from a distance, and the First Matron's daughter was quite plain.

"So charming," Triel noted. "But do you really mean what you say, or are you simply trying to avoid punishment?"

"Few truly desire punishment, but I often mean what I say," the young soldier answered. He dared a teasing smile and was pleased when the female laughed with genuine pleasure.

"You are not just a pretty face, I think," Triel. "There are some brains in that soldier's head, even if you swing swords and grunt all day with the rest of the boors."

"I have been told I grunt more intelligently than most," Zaknafein answered mock-seriously.

"And what else do you do intelligently, Zaknafein?" Triel asked. Her eyes were bright rubies as she flirted at him from under long white lashes.

Zaknafein was not surprised that the female already knew his name. It was clear that her eye had been on him for some time. "I am capable of excelling in almost any area to which I apply myself," he coolly answered.

"Oh, indeed?" she challenged him, sneering at his arrogance.

"Indeed. Along with my martial skills, I also am quite proficient in the smithy," Zaknafein informed her perfunctorily.

"Impressive. Unfortunately, my operation has no need for a smith at present," Triel said with mock regret.

Zaknafein leaned back against the bar and stretched his torso in a deceptively casual manner. The female studied him with veiled appreciation, but neither elf admitted clear attraction.

"What operation would that be, Mistress?" Zaknafein asked, almost genuinely curious.

"I am a merchant. I transport goods between drow cities."

Zaknafein's left eyebrow rose, impressed with the female's daring despite himself. Travelling the Underdark was no mean feat, even with armed guards.

"An unusual career choice, Mistress. Are you from Menzoberranzan?" He thought he detected something of an accent.

The female studied him coolly for a moment, and Zaknafein held his breath, wondering if he'd been too familiar. "No," Triel finally answered. "I hail from Ched Nasad."

Zaknafein fiddled with his wine bottle and then offered Triel a respectful nod before he snapped his fingers to summon the goblin waiter.

"Two glasses," he ordered. The tall flutes appeared almost immediately and Zaknafein poured two portions, one slightly more generous than the other. With practised deference, he handed the female the fuller glass before dispensing with the veiled flirtations.

"In truth, Mistress, I am not looking for a place with your operation, as I am sure you know. I have a future here in Menzoberranzan, and I am not very interested in going to other places."

"In truth, I was not looking for another employee, but are you truly so certain that you have a future here, Zaknafein? There is only so far a male can go in Menzoberranzan."

Zaknafein paused with true shock. This was an extremely unusual thing for a female to admit sympathetically.

Triel seemed to understand, for she smiled wryly. "They take a more liberal view of such things in Ched Nasad, and I suppose I am a product of my upbringing."

"I have heard that they even have male clerics there," Zaknafein said slowly. Such a notion did not truly appeal to him, for he suspected that the priests would be just as deceptive and brutal as the priestesses, but certainly the system would offer more opportunities to males that would ever be possible in Menzoberranzan. He wondered why it was that the two cities, which both worshipped the same goddess and ostensibly received instruction from her both operated under different social and religious constraints--but then he supposed that they did not call her the Goddess of Chaos for nothing.

"Ah, yes, the priests," the female said slowly before trailing off with a frown.

Zaknafein sipped at his mushroom wine as the last of his erotic energy drained away. The tangential conversation had not developed as he had expected, and now he was thinking of things he usually preferred to ignore.

Triel apparently sensed his sudden lack of vigour, for she leaned forward, affording Zak a generous view of the inside of her embroidered tunic. "Enough of such talk. Why don't you show me exactly how skilled you are, Zaknafein of Daermon N'a'shezbaernon..."

Slowly, Triel reached down and grasped the hilt of Zaknafein's left sword. She rubbed her hand across the pommel in prurient mimicry and Zaknafein, who was only too happy to lose himself in the physical, met her eyes with renewed interest and allowed himself to be lead across the dance floor towards one of the _Web'_s more private chambers, when suddenly the music changed.

As one, both drow stopped, their bodies already responding to the harsh, staccato prelude.

"_L'elggor orbb's alure,_" Triel breathed, and her red eyes flared with something approaching joy. "Dance with me!" she commanded.

Zaknafein slapped his left hand forcefully into the open palm of Triel's left hand, then did the same with his right. Both drow leaned in slowly, bending down until the tops of their heads touched in the middle, forming the body of the spider. Zaknafein forced tremours to run down his legs, simulating the pained twitches of the spider.

A clear, long piercing 'C' an octave above High C broke over the dance floor, and was echoed, an octave or two lower, by drow voices. Zaknafein heard the piercing wail emerge from his own throat, pained and almost dissonant, edging into microtones of despair.

Then it truly began: each movement was stern, echoed flawlessly by the partner, the spider's twitches growing more furious as the music relentlessly sped up—switching into double time, then doubling again. Sweat ran down Zaknafein's temples, soaked his hair and dribbled down into his tunic until front and back were equally drenched. His red eyes matched Triel's step for step, gleaming in the spider's head: four malevolent, slanted orbs locked onto a prey that could be sensed, but not seen. A raw hunger gripped Zaknafein's body, and his feet moved faster and faster until the entire room was one kaleidoscopic blur. Dozens of frantic spiders danced their last dances, colliding before bouncing back into their own spaces to die alone.

A sudden shudder went through Zaknafein's body as Triel bumped into someone with unexpected force, and out of the corner of his eye Zaknafein saw a familiar male tumbling to the ground. He laughed and whirled his dance partner back into the crowd, twitching and circling until the music slowed to a grievous end and dizziness forced every elf still standing down to lie, panting, on the floor.

Much later, soaked with sweat and tingling with zealous energy, Zaknafein and Triel stole into an adjacent room, their mouths and limbs already intimating another, equally primal dance while Jarlaxle, standing on the other side of the room and twelve coins poorer, watched with envy.

* * *

"You unbelievable bastard!" Jarlaxle exclaimed as Zaknafein slid into the seat across from him.

Zaknafein smiled with exhausted satisfaction as he relaxed into the out of the way corner in which his friend had taken up residence. It was cool there, effectively obscuring much of their heat-shadows from the eyes of other drow. "What did I do this time, Jara?"

"You know perfectly well what you did—disappearing to parts unknown with that gorgeous creature!"

"Finders keepers," Zaknafein shrugged before snatching Jarlaxle's wine glass and downing half of its contents, as if to prove his point.

Just as Zaknafein put the glass back, Jarlaxle slapped his friend's forearm down on the table and made a move towards the other drow's closely cropped hair, but Zaknafein leaned back just enough that Jarlaxle was forced to overextend himself, leaving Zaknafein free to pull the other elf down using the same arm that Jarlaxle held. Jarlaxle grunted as his midriff came into contact with the edge of the table, and Zaknafein grabbed his friend's longer hair with his other hand, using it to quickly force Jarlaxle's head next to his pinned arm.

"Foul common cheater!" Jarlaxle exclaimed in a strangled voice.

"Of course," Zaknafein said with a rather bitter little smile. "The cheaters are the winners. I thought you knew that, Jarlaxle."

A small explosion of bright light filled Zaknafein's eyes, stinging painfully and blinding him. He fumbled at his face, loosing his grip for just a second. It was enough. Jarlaxle's whole body crashed into him, pinning Zaknafein painfully to the floor. He had a brief thought of the other patrons being bothered enough by the light to get them both tossed out of the pub, but Jarlaxle's seating arrangement was private enough to make it unlikely.

"Oh, I know cheaters are the winners, Zaknafein," Jarlaxle purred into his ear, and Zak could hear the smug grin. "I've known that since the day I was born."

"Have you been this much of an ass since you were born, too?" Zaknafein grumbled, feeling very foolish that he had fallen for such a trick.

"All part of my unique charm," Jarlaxle assured him, still holding him down. "You should, however, be honoured to know that I am only an ass with my dear friends. With my enemies I am the soul of _politesse_."

"Then you must have a good many dear friends," Zaknafein retorted. He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, felt the pain recede slightly, but dared not open them yet. A hand on his right arm pulled him to his feet, and Zaknafein let Jarlaxle put him back into his seat.

"Here. Have the rest," Jarlaxle offered, putting the wine goblet back into the other elf's hands.

"Oh, sure, now you don't mind," Zaknafein grumbled, but knocked back the wine just the same.

Jarlaxle clucked his tongue. "You should be able to open your eyes in a couple of minutes."

"Thanks," Zaknafein muttered irritably.

"So how was she?" his friend asked, and Zak could hear the dirty grin entering the other drow's voice.

Zaknafein pretended to think, laying one index finger across his lips. "What was it I was saying before about not kissing and telling?"

"_Vith_ to that. You do enough kissing for ten people, so you can tell for at least one," Jarlaxle laughed.

Zaknafein offered a somewhat crooked smile, and acutely felt the skin stretch across his face. "She was...accommodating. She was from Ched Nasad. They have some very liberal ideas."

Jarlaxle snickered. "So I hear. Might I assume that both work and result were somewhat more mutual than usual?"

"There's no sense giving you permission to assume anything," Zaknafein frowned, "because you'll just do it anyway."

"You'll go far with logic like that, my friend. Try to open your eyes now."

Cautiously, Zaknafein opened his eyes a fraction, letting in a sliver of heat. When it didn't sting too terribly, he opened his eyes the rest of the way.

"That was a miserable trick you played."

Jarlaxle's smile was all teeth. "The more miserable the trick, the more effective the result. Besides, now you'll never be caught off guard like that again. I was doing you a favour, _abbil._ In return," he laughed, "for a very thorough linguistic education."

Zaknafein lifted his eyebrows, and a made an inquiring click filled with confusion.

"You see," Jarlaxle began, "I was juggling for this group of slack-jawed yobs and--"

_Wait! _Zak signed sharply, before leaning back as casually as possible. "Trouble at o-two-hundred."

He tilted his head in the direction of a particularly large female loitering in the doorway. Dressed in plain robes, she was affecting a nonchalant air, but Zak saw the signs: cold, clinical eyes, arrogant tilt to the head, supercilious posture, and most damningly of all the slight bulge under her robes that suggested a poorly hidden mace.

Jarlaxle followed Zak's direction. "Yes, I see that. What do you think?"

Zaknafein shrugged. He didn't know why the priestess was here. Even common clerics usually considered themselves too good for this neighbourhood, and this one clearly wasn't here to enjoy herself. Something was up.

"Don't know. How about another bottle?"

"You sure?" Jarlaxle lifted his eyebrows.

"Why not. I've still got most of my wits about me," Zaknafein said cheerfully. He stood up and shouted for the goblin. It came scurrying over quickly enough, but not quickly enough to avoid getting a box on the ear.

"Forgive me, Master," the goblin whined. "Doogle is slow. Doogle is sorry he is slow. So sorry." The creature snivelled pathetically and bowed in what both elves considered to be a disgustingly ingratiating manner.

"Wine," Zaknafein snapped, and watched it go running, but when he turned back to Jarlaxle, he saw his friend watching him with piercingly intelligent eyes. Zaknafein grimaced, at that moment almost preferring the silly dandy to the all too clever and insightful person hidden beneath.

"We can leave early, Zak," Jarlaxle offered.

Zaknafein grimaced. "No. We came here for a reason."

"So did she, I think," Jarlaxle warned.

"Do you think Terranin's in trouble?" Zaknafein asked without thinking.

Jarlaxle shook his head. "If he were, he'd already be dead. No: this is something else. Something that they're not sure about."

Zaknafein snorted. "They're always sure."

Jarlale shook his head slowly. "Not this time."

Both males fell silent, struck with the novelty of the priestesses being unsure about anything. Suddenly the world was a very different place. A place filled with possibilities.

"Do you think the city council sent her?" Zak asked as quietly as he could. He wasn't willing to risk signing his question, even in their cool little corner.

"It's possible. Could just be for a matron, though."

Zaknafein laughed grimly. "You say that like a matron mother isn't trouble enough."

"Not as much as the council," Jarlaxle muttered back furiously.

Silence fell once more as both males furtively watched the cleric.

"She's not bad looking," Jarlaxle finally murmured, seeming almost intrigued.

Zaknafein rolled his eyes. "We should find out what she wants," he said carefully, keeping his head down as he toyed with his glass.

Jarlaxle smiled slowly. "My turn."

"Didn't manage to find any company earlier?" Zak asked with a smirk.

"I didn't say that," Jarlaxle scowled, and Zaknafein grinned triumphantly at the answer to his question.

Jarlaxle frowned, leaned back, filled his glass and took a swallow, then put it back down. "Listen; I'll go talk to her. If she's here undercover, she'll be asking people about whatever it is she's looking for."

Zaknafein chuckled and picked up his glass in a mock toast. "To your health, _abbil_."

Jarlaxle met the toast and knocked back his mushroom wine with an ironic slurp.

* * *

Just a few notes this time, I think.

Drow language stuff: According to online drow dictionaries, nouns are pluralised with 'en' after words ending in a consonant and 'n' in words ending in a vowel. Thus 'abbil' becomes 'abbilen' in the plural.

The possessive is formed with 's as in English or "Common."

I took the words for_ "L'elggor orbb's alure" _from them. Any grammatical errors in the dance's name are my own.

The dance itself I also invented. I took my inspiration from the name of a Sicilian dance called _La Tarantella_, which is in fact supposed to mimic the movements of a person dying from a spider bite, whereas _l'elggor orbb's alure _would be the dying dance of the spider itself. In practice, the dances would probably look nothing alike. The drow dance I picture as being far more dark, stiff, fast and chaotic.

As for the name Triel: yes there were others I could have used, but I wanted to violate that fictional principle which dictates that no two main characters ever share a name. Nor can a minor character or literary extra ever seem to share a name with a main character, yet I suspect that there are a great many Drizzts in Menzoberranzan who greatly regret their mothers choices on the days of their births!

Juggling records:

Rings/Plates: 13 rings for 13 catches by Albert Lucas in /Beanbags: 12 beanbags for 12 catches, first done by Bruce Sarafian in /Sticks: 9 sticks for 9 catches, first done by Bruce Tiemann in 1996.

Each of these records is what is known as a "flash", meaning each prop is thrown and caught only once.

So Jarlaxle would have been hovering around human records, anyway, if he were performing his tricks without magical aide. For all we know, he could very well do it without magical tricks, but he's lazy that way:D

And finally re: the endless wine that Zak is drinking. Well, according to the manuals drow can put away more booze than dwarves and still dance a tango after! It will be a while until our dear drow friend is well and truly plastered.


	4. Chapter 4

Note: Just edited this chapter again. I had forgotten that I previously gave the twins names. Names have now been inserted.

**Menzoberranzan Nights**

by Ziggy Sternenstaub

From Part Three:

_Zaknafein rolled his eyes. "We should find out what she wants," he said carefully, keeping his head down as he toyed with his glass._

_Jarlaxle smiled slowly. "My turn."_

"_Didn't manage to find any company earlier?" Zak asked with a smirk._

"_I didn't say that," Jarlaxle scowled, and Zaknafein grinned triumphantly at the answer to his question._

_Jarlaxle frowned, leaned back, filled his glass and took a swallow, then put it back down. "Listen; I'll go talk to her. If she's here undercover, she'll be asking people about whatever it is she's looking for."_

_Zaknafein chuckled and picked up his glass in a mock toast. "To your health, abbil."_

_Jarlaxle met the toast and knocked back his mushroom wine with an ironic slurp._

**Part Four**

Zaknafein watched his companion cross the dance floor, jauntily heading towards the poorly concealed cleric with a confidence that the young soldier could only helplessly envy. Jarlaxle was certain of himself in a way that Zaknafein never could be, only too aware as he was of his own insignificance in writhing nest of spiders that was Menzoberranzan.

Across the distance, he saw Jarlaxle stop in front of the female, presenting himself with exactly the right combination of obeisance and cockiness. The females almost always fell for it, and this one seemed no different. A smile teased Zaknafein's thin lips as he watched her angry posture melt into reluctant intrigue.

"Zak!" a smoke-hoarse voice exclaimed.

Zaknafein looked to the voice, recognising the approaching long face and razor-thin body of the pub's owner.

"Terranin. Pull up a chair," he offered with a cynical grin.

"Offering me a seat in my own tavern. Good of you," the other male said, dropping his ridiculously tall body into Jarlaxle's seat.

"I'm always good," Zaknafein deadpanned.

"And when you're bad, you're better," Terranin finished the old joke, chuckling.

"I'm drow, aren't I?"

"Sometimes I wonder," Terranin retorted, but there was no threat in his voice. "So what brings you to my humble establishment?"

"I heard the twins were playing tonight," Zaknafein said, and his voice gentled with anticipation.

"That they are. Very soon."

"Are they here yet?" Zak asked more eagerly than he would have liked. The facade of cool drow cynicism was not to be broken lightly.

Terranin nodded smugly, clearly aware of how much extra custom he drew whenever the bards visited.

"In my office."

Zak's eyes were drawn magnetically to the door that divided the pub from Terranin's private living space. Automatically his mind provided a picture of the two drow bards, brother and sister—she with her prodigious harp, he with his long silver flute or his shining lute made with wood from the terrible and enigmatic Surface. He wondered what they were doing right at that very moment, what they were saying in the space they occupied, an infinitisimal yet infinite distance from the space his own body occupied. He thought of how no two people could ever truly touch each other. He thought of Triel, with whom he'd grappled in brief, sweat-soaked passion, and he thought of all the empty longing he'd felt immediately after...

"Something on your mind?" Terranin asked shrewdly, studying him with cool eyes.

"No—no," the young student almost stuttered. He stopped himself before he could ask if the other male ever wished that things were different. Of course he did—every male wished that things were different, but that wasn't exactly what he meant. He wasn't sure what he meant.

"No," he repeated again.

"Hm," Terranin grunted his disbelief.

"It been a long day," Zaknafein said evasively.

"That's right, the Academy," the other elf chuckled. "How's that going for you?"

"Good," Zaknafein shrugged, tracing a spiderweb pattern onto the table. His fingers left red heat trails that all too quickly dissipated. He frowned thoughtfully down at their brevity.

"Sure about that?" Terranin asked sceptically.

Zaknafein sighed and leaned back in his seat. "You know, I was in a good mood up until about five minutes ago."

"I seem to have that effect on you," the owner said, lifting a coolly amused eyebrow.

"You're a fistful of spiders, all right," Zak grinned, quoting the idiom that indicated perilously mixed fortunes. "But you don't have anything do with it. Maybe I really am just tired."

"What you need is a good drink," Terranin offered the barkeeper's traditional solution for just about everything.

"What do you think I've been doing since I got here?" Zak asked dryly.

"Besides that cute little merchant that was over by the bar?"

"Besides that," Zaknafein confirmed flatly.

"You can never have too much of either," the other male informed him. "Come on back up and I'll get you something special. My personal answer to bad days and sleepless nights."

"Sounds perfect." Zaknafein stretched lazily and felt some of the weary melancholy leave his limbs. Perhaps Terranin was right. At least for today, a stiff drink might divert his thoughts from everything that was wrong with his world. But as they were walking to the bar, a petite male mounted the front dais and quietly dismissed the house band, plunging the tavern into sudden silence.

"Good gentledrow, if I may have your attention, our featured act for tonight—famed far and wide, from Menzoberranzan to Skullport and back again—is about to begin. Presenting the twins!"

Subsonic waves of tense excitement swept the room, and Zaknafein looked around anxiously, trying to find Jarlaxle. The spot where his friend and the cleric had stood was now filled with other people, and the flamboyant young male was nowhere to be found. Zaknafein dismissed the notion of searching for his friend more actively. If Jarlaxle was now engaged in pleasures less cerebral than music, he would not thank Zaknafein for the interruption.

The little drow climbed down from the dais, leaving the centre anticipatorily empty in the moment before two tall, exceptionally good-looking individuals filled the hollow. Both drow wore their hair unusually long—longer even than the cuts favoured by members of the highest ranking Menzoberranyn families. The female's hair fell well past her waist, while the male's hair came almost to his knees, falling in kinked, unruly ripples. Both Nalfein and Nadalya dressed in clothes ensorcelled to give off heat signatures that crossed the entire spectrum of colour. Zaknafein squinted insane patterns on the female's frock; the shapes changed so quickly that he couldn't quite make his eyes focus.

True to their simple moniker, the two bards were otherwise almost identicle in appearance. Even their differing sex attributes were subdued, and were it not for their clothing, Zaknafein wasn't entirely certain he could have determined which one was the brother, and which the sister. In a world as rigidly divided by gender as his own, the anomoly both disturbed and elated Zaknafein.

The bards did not address the crowd, instead simply taking up their instruments to begin a deceptively simple set of harmonics. Nadalya plucked her harp, the resonant notes instantly filling every corner of the room, while the male's flute emitted a saturnine melody that weaved in and under the chords of the harp. After perhaps thirty seconds the melancholy melody began to climb, following the increasing speed of the harp. The flute quickly turned shriller, almost harsh, scraping Zaknafein's ears with something that the young warrior instinctively recognised as pain. He felt the urge to turn away from the stage, to flee the scene of such naked and true emotion--so foreign to his conditioning—but those same qualities that repulsed him also drew him, and he rocked on his feet, torn between running and standing still forever.

He did not have to look at the other drow in the room to know that they were experiencing the same conundrum. Uncomfortable waves of emotional confusion shared the same all-encompassing space with the music, and under the song the young drow could sense the uneasy shifting of predatory animals who have suddenly realised that they too could be prey. A palpable sigh of collective relief and regret soughed past Zaknafein's ears when the song finally ended.

On the dais, Nalfein smiled at his audience, and the smile—so open and genuine--was as disturbing as the music.

"We thank you for coming to hear us, drow of Menzoberranzan," he said with an accent that was strangely light and welcoming. "Tonight we have a newly-penned air for you, and we hope that you will indulge us by listening."

A captive murmur of assent arose in response, and Nalfein exchanged his flute for the warmly glowing lute, upon which he strummed a few introductory chords. The gentle pattern faded into the background when it was joined by the high, grieved wail of Nadalya's voice. The tortured air scratched at the ceiling, scrambled for purchase against something that could be neither seen nor touched, but felt as threatening and all-pervasive as prayer.

The brother soon added his voice, offering a lower, almost dissonant harmony that closed up Zaknafein's throat with rending pain. Against his will and all the rules of survival, he clenched his eyes shut, shielding his face from the hot moisture that yearned to escape him. Only near the end of the song did he begin to listen to the words. He was not surprised that they were as troubling as the music.

_...on the day I know I've lost_

_my grief, bitten past defeat,_

_I plead my spider-blistered brother, sister,_

_carve out my hollow heart..._

This was dangerous. Without having to be told, Zaknafein knew that not only the words were heresy. The raw sadness, too, must be forbidden. Even death was not mourned in Menzoberranzan, and this dirge had been written for something far less tangible than the passing of a twisted spirit from a cooling black corpse.

He was relieved when the lyric ended on a sudden, high note that vanished into plummeting silence. The twins gazed out over the crowd, smiling identical, strange smiles—crafty, yet bizarrely lacking in any kind of malice, and Zaknafein felt comforted in a way he'd rarely experienced.

"Tonight we're going to tell you a story," Nalfein announced. "We haven't told this one in Menzoberranzan before, and we think that you'll enjoy it."

He played a few, disjointed notes on his flute, and a sweet smell filled the air. The crowd muttered and moved, uneasy with this threatening magic. The twins appeared oblivious to the tension.

"A very long, long time ago, in a very strange land—so strange that males and females both had power over it—there lived an elf of great gifts and fortitude, and he protected this land and made it so rich with both strength and beauty that all within it were content with their lot. No elf harmed another, and all citizens were so near to immortality as not to make a difference. The great land had been at peace for so long that discord had been almost forgotten, and so it seemed to all that this peace would continue until the multiverse was drained of heat and went utterly dark, and all the gods were annihilated by the inexorable hand of time."

Nadalya strummed her harp, and lovely, soothing dark colours crept up the walls of the _Web. _

"The most fortunate of all elves appeared to be this one who protected it. He was a prince tall and beautiful, godlike in appearance and manner, keen of mind, and the greatest of all warriors: skills he had learned in a time when such things were still necessary. Still he hoped never to use those skills again, for he wished no war on his land, nor on his beautiful son and daughter, or his wife who was the fairest of the fair, so lovely as to be blinding to look upon. And she, too, possessed great gifts, for animals came to her call and bidding when she desired it, and she created tapestries in which beautiful and true elven destinies were woven."

Zaknafein watched as the flute summoned the shadowy figure of a elf female. Her back was turned to the crowd, but even that was so flawless that his mouth went dry at the bare glimpse of it. The illusion's long, delicate white hands—the image of elven perfection—flew over a tremendous loom at a bewildering pace.

"Yet though the happiness of the peaceful prince, his family, and his people seemed to be without end, on one day much like any other day he was to discover that even the bright destinies of the blessed can be corrupted. Wandering without blade or bow through a wilderness that had long been no threat, he was horrified when a wild beast rushed at him with murder in its simple mind. Though he tried to calm and tame it as he had done with many others, his gentle words and gentle hands were to no effect, and the beast savaged him."

The female wavered and vanished, and was replaced by a beautiful, golden-skinned elven male who fought under an unknown, shaggy monster.

"With regret, he was forced to destroy the beast that he might save his own life, which was vital to the safety of his people. Deeply troubled, he returned to his palace and the warm breast of his family, there to be comforted by his puzzled children and the thoughtful embrace of his wife.

"And for a time, all was well once more. No other beast attacked him, and as years passed, he banished that event's shadow from his naturally joyous spirit. But of course, that joy was once more to be disturbed."

Unwittingly, Zaknafein nodded. No joy lasted. He was drow; he understood this.

"Eventually having grown complacent of the danger, he dared again to alone enter the wilderness. His journeys took him far and wide, and all were peaceful, until the day he was tempted by the warm waters of a great lake, and stripped to swim in its calm embrace. But when he moved far from the shore, and safety, that embrace tightened most perilously. A monster rose from the depths to wrap him in great tentacles, and however cunningly and terribly he fought, all the more terribly did the monster constrict his body. Its great maw opened to display hideous fangs the length of war-making swords, and this most blameless and beautiful of elves feared to be devoured. And so he would have been, had not a wizard of great power been passing along the shore. Seeing the distress of his noble prince, the wizard summoned his great power to stun the monster, and the victim was able to swim free."

The illusion of a great, tentacled monster spilled over the dias, a struggling, helpless elf trapped in its bulk until a great bolt of silver magic ripped into the beast, dissolving it.

"The prince thanked his rescuer most graciously and sincerely, and asked him how he came to be travelling by the lake just when he had been in need of assistance. The wizard freely answered, telling his ruler that the prince's wife, the great weaver of destinies, had summoned many mages to search for him, for she had received a terrible vision of his death. The wizard had most truthfully expected to retrieve his ruler's body, and not his living self.

"Troubled, the prince again thanked the wizard for his assistance, and offered the seal of his house in return. Should the wizard ever require anything of import, he would always have his ruler's aid. Deeply grateful, the wizard escorted his lord back to his great house.

"But that journey was one silent, for dark thoughts crowded the prince's keen mind. A terrible suspicion of betrayal had taken root, and it was not one to be easily dismissed. And so when the wizard moved to depart back to his own house, the prince asked one more favour—that the mage cast a spell of deception to make the prince appear to look as the air and to sound as softly as breath. Greatly puzzled, the wizard agreed to do as his lord asked. Then having cast his spell and warned the prince that it would not last more than one hour, he departed."

Though Zaknafein had never before heard this alien story, he already knew its ending. He was drow. There was only one way it could end.

"Looking as air, and sounding as softly as one breath among many, the keen prince entered his abode. There he found the walls already draped with the soft white cloth of mourning, and his wife, she who was lovely beyond all mortals, was draped with it also in body. But her face was twisted with a greed and anger he had never seen, nor suspected, in the mother of his lovely children. Together with his shining son, she stood, speaking of his death and how they would benefit from it, and the heart of the prince broke to know that the glorious princess had executed this terrible deed with the aid of helpless, wild creatures who could not help but come to her call.

"For an hour, he listened, hearing of how they planned now to rule absolutely over the people, how a new age of dynastic greed would take shape under their avarous tending. And as the hour drew to a close, he knew his heart had hardened, and he renounced his wife—first to himself, and then to her, for his steps grew solid once more, and his face appeared loud and terrible with vengeance in the hollow of deceit.

"His wife made excuses; told lies; threw herself upon all of his past favour: his love, his adoration, the children she had borne him, but he was merciless, knowing now that she was the same. Summoning all of his power, he subdued her and made both her and their son his prisoner, and when their daughter at last appeared with face showing only horror and confusion, the prince grew more furious with continued deception, and cast all three into a dark hole in the earth, there to await judgement.

"But once more he had underestimate her of the shining mien, for inside the dark earth she called on the only help to be found: the small creatures that live in the dirt. They came to her then—a great nest of prodigious spiders made rapacious and hateful with the force of her command, digging ceaslessly with sharp claws to loose the awful and treacherous female.

"In the midnight hours, she burst triumphantly free, taking with her her perfidious son, and freeing too her lovely daughter. And as they fled, the shining princess swore blood vengeance on the father of her children. Wherever he was, he would feel her wrath; wherever he breathed, he would fear the ceasing of breath; wherever he had followers, she would subvert them, time without end.

"Upon the morning and discovering the empty prison, discovering the plan of his murder compounded by flight from justice, the prince too called down a curse on his family—that only the creeping creatures that had set them free would now so servily come to the call of the princess, and that all the shining bright flesh of wife, son and daughter would turn as black as mage-wrought ice, their crimes painted dark that all would witness treachery on their limbs, their hands, their faces."

Zaknafein closed his eyes with a brief, weary moment. He had known, but he had hoped that it would end differently.

"But there is a moment of hope in this darkness," the female twin added. Her voice was soft, careful, and Zaknafein was compelled to open his eyes. "For after some time had passed, the sorrowful and furious prince received a visitor. In the dead of night she came, alone and defenceless and proud—his daughter whose bright flesh had been darkened. When he saw her, he drew the sword he now wore; held it to her slim throat, and demanded the knowledge of why she had come to dare his wrath.

"Sorrowful yet smiling, she told him that she had had no part in her mother's plans. She did not expect him to believe her, but she desired him to know that sharing in the punishment of her mother and brother might come to some good, for they believed that she now shared in their terrible ambitions to subvert and claim all of the prince's people. And so there with her terrible kin she would stay, she told him, to work against their plans; to help whom she could, and to be a comfort to the blinded elves who chose to follow her mother into the darkness. One day, some day, they would need her.

"The dark lady left her golden father then, and he allowed her to go. Against all hope, he hoped that she had spoken truth."

Sadly smiling, Nadalya strummed her harp again, and the final illusion—the image of a drow female softly touching the golden face of her faerie father—faded softly away.

"All of you must remember that there is always hope," the female bard said, "Even here in the heart of the spider's web. For the spiders, too, were only deceived, poor creatures, and the darkness is only the other side of light..."

"Zak!"

Jarlaxle's voice burst into his friend's ear, and Zaknafein jumped, startled and uneasy to have been approached without notice.

"Zak, they're looking for the twins. We need to get out of here; there's going to be a whole battery of clerics on this place any minute now."

"What are you talking about?" Zaknafein demanded.

"The cleric, stupid: the one I was in the back with. We came out in time hear the end of that subversive little sermon, and now she's got what she came for. They've been looking for these two for a while now; they're going to capture them and sacrifice them to Lloth as genuine heretics. It's going to be a big show, I'd say, and we need to get out of here before it happens. You could be killed just for standing here listening to that!"

"It's just a damned story," Zaknafein snapped.

Jarlaxle stared at him meaningfully. "You know as well as I do that it's a whole lot more than that. They have some balls coming to Menzoberranzan with it, though; I'll give them that much. Now come on!"

Jarlaxle urgently tugged on his friend's arm, but Zaknafein could not help turning back to the two bards who were standing so fearlessly in front of a whole city of Lloth's most dedicated worshipers. Jarlaxle was right about one thing: they had courage, and suddenly Zak could not bear to see them pay the price of it. With a sharp jerk, he slipped free of Jarlaxle's grasp and began elbowing his way through he crowd, drawing his share of hisses and and shoves of indignation until he was finally in front of the dais.

"You need to get out of here," he urgently informed the bards. "The clerics are on their way; they're going to take you for heresy. You know what that means."

From the glance the two exchanged, they knew very well, but they hesitated.

"Come on; you said what you have to say. Maybe some of them will think about it, but you're no good to them dead!" Zak hissed.

"We're no good them banished, either," Nadalya said dryly.

"So you'd rather die?" Zaknafein demanded.

"Well, when you put it that way...no."

"Come on, then; I know a quick way to the city's border!"

The two bards grabbed their instruments and jumped from the dais amidst growing disappointment, confusion, and the well-honed awareness of drow who know when something is suddenly very, very wrong.

Zaknafein hurried over to Terranin. "We need to go out the back."

"That's obvious," the bar owner said, and did not waste time asking questions before leading them over to his private door, which he quickly began to disspell.

Jarlaxle appeared at Zaknafein's side, looking frazzled. "What are doing?" he hissed.

"What does it look like?" Zak asked. "Are you coming?"

"Coming! You, _abbil_, are insane!"

Zaknafein grinned fiercely. "Most likely—but isn't it fun?"

"Fun! You're going to get yourself killed."

Zaknafein never had the chance to answer, for just then the front entrance to the tavern was blown into oblivion by a great blast of clerical power, and he was paralysed with terror and loathing at the sight of hundreds of grotesque, unnatural spiders rushing in to fill the gap.

"Heretics!" a magically amplified voice announced from beyond the door. "Surrender yourselves to the justice of Lloth, or be devoured alive."

* * *

Oooh, what will happen next? Tune in to find out--same Zak time (okay hopefully not eight months from now...), same Zak channel!

The story that the twins tell is of course a highly distorted folk account of the betrayal of Corellon Larethian by Aurashnee, the elven goddess who later became known as Lloth, and the bards are missionaries from the only 'good' drow deity, Eilistraee: the daughter of Lloth and Corellon Larethian.

Reviewers will be loved and showered with adoration!

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**nick:** I'm glad you're enjoying the story. I know Jarlaxle uses both fighting styles in the future, but maybe he only used the one when he was an itty witty baby Machiavelli. :D


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